


Dynamic

by Swirlyer



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 07:04:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8153263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swirlyer/pseuds/Swirlyer
Summary: This is always how their dynamic has been, Enjolras supposes. Grantaire, unruly and drunk, now obedient and quiet on his knees. Enjolras, focused on liberty and the rights of man, now tyrannical and controlling with straining curls in hand.*Enjolras takes a moment to take Grantaire apart.





	

Enjolras is moving in quick, efficient movements - dimming candles, drawing curtains, pouring wine. He can already feel a slight buzz in his veins, traveling through his body, making his movements more relaxed than usual.

When he stops, he looks to where Grantaire is standing, how his eyes will not meet Enjolras', his head lowered, chin down.

Outside, Paris is quiet, an evening where there isn't laughter from below, or the call of a person's name in the distance. Only the occasional gust of wind, deadened by the closed window.

"Grantaire," He says, and watches as Grantaire lowers himself to his knees, crossing hands behind his back and lowering his gaze. Watches the way the pale throat bobs from a heavy swallow, how he already seems to be shaking, ever so slightly.

The wine Enjolras drinks from is bitter, and he settles a hand along Grantaire's shoulder, smoothing along inky curls. For a moment, Grantaire goes tense in his touch, then pushes into it, obedient.

Enjolras does not give praise easily. He expects Grantaire to do as he says, naturally, without positive reinforcement or the promise of reward. Instead, his grip tightens in those curls, dark against Enjolras' pale hand. To his credit, the cynic stays where he is, lets Enjolras pull slightly, intent. _Obedient_.

This is always how their dynamic has been, Enjolras supposes. Grantaire, unruly and drunk, now obedient and quiet on his knees. Enjolras, focused on liberty and the rights of man, now tyrannical and controlling with straining curls in hand.

He releases those curls, hears Grantaire's small intake of breath, and narrows his eyes in annoyance. So, "Does this _humiliate_ you, Grantaire?"

There is no answer. Enjolras does not expect one. Instead, he leans down, so the words can be whispered into Grantaire's ear.

This time, the cynic tenses again, ever so slightly. It is surprisingly easy to get underneath Grantaire's skin, though perhaps it is just a talent of Enjolras'. Regardless, Enjolras erects himself once more and stares down at Grantaire, imposing.

Grantaire looks up, eyebrows furrowed in such a way that he looks doggish. "Yes."

Enjolras reaches over, takes another sip of wine. When he sets it down, he begins to loosen his cravat, and then unbutton the vest on his shoulders. When he is left only his white shirt, loosely buttoned, and his pants, he begins to start at those as well.

"No," Grantaire says, voice low.

Enjolras pauses, looking down at the doggish man beneath him, eyes narrowed. He does not say anything, only stares, quizzical if he were capable in this state of mind.

"No?" Enjolras echoes.

"No."

This time, Enjolras does not conceal his anger or his disappointment. With sure movements, he begins re-buttoning his shirt, head raised and proud. If Grantaire would not have him, then Enjolras will not press, only is annoyed he wasn't told sooner.

Grantaire's hands move up, coming over Enjolras', stopping him.

When Enjolras narrows his eyes once more, Grantaire's eyes, an ugly, murky color, have the appearance of an animal exposed to fire.

If this is a game, Enjolras does not understand. Half-drunk on wine, his tongue is loose, common. "Is there a reason for your foolishness?"

It is unkindly meant, and obviously received that way, if Grantaire's slight recoil is anything to go by. "Is there _ever_?" Grantaire mutters.

This is not their dynamic. Grantaire is obedient on his knees, he does not typically speak, only maintains humiliation and the brunt of Enjolras' sadism. But upon closer inspection, he can see Grantaire's arousal, the flush of his face, the dilation of his pupils, the hardening of his pants.

Enjolras does not understand, until he does.

When Enjolras' knuckles hit Grantaire's face, the sound reverberates in the room, sharp, loud, _painful_. The noise Grantaire makes is a groan and a moan all at once. When he was younger, Enjolras was trained in self-defense and two martial arts, as per his mother's request. He knows how to aim a blow, how to make it hurt.

He would never hit Grantaire's nose, or eyes, but there is blood dripping along Grantaire's lip, weakened from being chapped and split from Enjolras' blow. Grantaire presses closer, as Enjolras thumbs along the blood in Grantaire's lip, making him taste it.

"Please," He begs.

"If you had wanted a punishment," Enjolras begins, terrible, fingers in inky curls once more, "Then perhaps you might have asked of it, instead of debasing yourself like this. When you are on your knees, you are _obedient_. Am I _clear_ , Grantaire?"

Enjolras' grip had gotten tighter during his lecture, and Grantaire keens. "Yes, _yes_ , clear! Please!"

If that should have made Enjolras relent, if that should have softened him somehow, it does not. It never does. Grantaire's lack of control, his pleas, only fuel the fire, and he gives another two sharp stings to Grantaire's cheek.

He stops, waiting. Though Enjolras is careful during these bouts, only giving two or three blows to Grantaire's face at a time, he would give more for that display, but Grantaire is pushing into his head, fervent.

"Please," He says again, and Enjolras understands.

Enjolras begins at his breeches again, lowering them, his arousal making his cock hard and flushed, twitching slightly against the colder air of the room. Grantaire moans lowly, straining forwards, unable to get anywhere on account of the hold Enjolras has in his hair.

Enjolras sneers above him, as if disgusted. "You have been remiss. Did you really think I would let you take control?"

Sometimes, Enjolras will let Grantaire set the pace, let him touch along his cock as well as sucking Enjolras'. Though he tries to keep it hidden, Enjolras knows how much Grantaire cherishes those moments.

Beneath him, Grantaire makes a noise, something akin to a whimper.

He is bigger than Enjolras, perhaps not vertically, but there is more muscle beneath his sleeves, a thicker set to his bones. His thighs are thick, muscular, and Enjolras relishes in spreading them. It would be a lie to say he isn't pleased by the body kneeling before him.

If Grantaire wanted to fight back, he could, and perhaps he might win - Bahorel, Feuilly and Grantaire frequented boxing rings together.

Enjolras lets his cold, dark boot press along Grantaire's tented cock, obscene in his breeches and imposing enough. Yes, Grantaire certainly _is_ bigger than him.

Grantaire almost doubles over, instinctively curling forwards, but Enjolras won't have it. His grip tightens, and he bends Grantaire's head back, exposing the column of his throat. Although it is tempting to mark, Enjolras brings his cock to those parted lips, watching as dark eyelashes flutter, fanning across pale skin.

Enjolras doesn't expect resistance, and he does not receive any. The lips around his cock are pliable, if dry, but from experience he knows that will not be an issue. Grantaire noises around him, but Enjolras pushes on.

He doesn't stop until he is deep, and further, he doesn't stop until he is spent. Grantaire swallows it all, obedient, and looks up through his eyelashes as Enjolras regains his breath, marble cheeks flush.

When he looks down, he can see the spot of Grantaire's own spend in his breeches, and his eyes narrow. Grantaire naturally looks away, like Enjolras' gaze is as burning as the sun, and as hot, judging by the way his face flushes.

Lips pursing, he reaches to the glass of wine, taking a sip for himself before passing it down to Grantaire. He lowers it to Grantaire's lips, watches as he drinks as if parched, and stops when the glass is drained.

Enjolras lowers himself down, pulls the cynic into his arms, and pets along Grantaire's hair.

Grantaire's breathing is smooth, soothed. He goes to speak, wordless for a moment.

Enjolras interrupts him, lips curved.

"No."


End file.
